The Road to Lothering
by Jedi Amoira
Summary: Elan & Alistair set off to do what Wardens do, accompanied by an unexpected, unwilling, & slightly unwelcome companion. Each struggles to deal w/ his or her own recent losses. Additions to chapter 4. May add to chap.1 Near complete.
1. Where's Woofus?

Disclaimer-- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters there-in, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I do not own the environment, events, dialogue, etc. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of paying homage to excellence. (Imitation, after all, is sincere flattery.) Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge. Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!

Note-- This stand-alone is a fragment of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I wanted to post.

* * *

Elan wasn't exactly certain why Flemeth had decided the two Grey Wardens she'd apparently gone to such lengths to save ought to depart with only a few hours of light left in they day, but—as the witch had reminded Alistair at one point in their odd little chat, it was best not to look a gift mage in the mouth...and so the two of them—and Morrigan—trudged along the path in silence, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts, though Elan suspected the susbstance of those thoughts was all too similar, in the end.

And all too close to her what hers had been when she and Duncan had fled Highever less than a month before. Less than a month...and more than a hundred lifetimes.

And where was Woofus? Elan knew she could ask one of her companions, but she was too afraid of hearing the answer.

All-in-all, they were a cheery lot—three orphans, each walking out into the world alone...

Elan stopped, leaning against a tree to catch her breath...though she thought it was less about her healing injuries than it was about her grief. Alistair glanced in her direction and began to build a circle of stones, piling twigs and branches inside it with an air of long experience. Morrigan, apparently having had as much of their company—silent as it was—as she could take, began arranging another, smaller pit a few yards away.

Elan sank to the ground near Alistair's fire and smiled awkward thanks. Alistair nodded slightly in reply, and crouched down on the other side, staring into the flames as if the Maker himself might emerge from them and set things right. Elan reached up to finger her hair where it ended just above the nape of her neck with a jolt of deja vu.

None of them slept much. Alistair and Morrigan banked the fires without conversation as soon as the first traces of dawn began to brush the horizon. And the three of them continued on. In silence.

But when Elan's stomach began to grumble, Alistair was suddenly at her shoulder, smiling wryly—a smile that pained her in the way it both did and didn't reach his eyes—as he offered her a handful of thick jerky.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Elan exclaimed, too relieved to be embarrassed. "I didn't know Flemeth gave us rations!"

Alistair looked a bit sheepish. "She...uh...didn't actually. I put these in my pack before we...before the...before." He pulled another handful from his pack and began to devour it rather absently.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Elan exclaimed. "I'd be lost without you, you know." Alistair eyed her a bit suspisciously, but her voice and expression were not only sincere, but even admiring.

They were passing a small farm just after mid-day when a mabari burst into sight, rounding a corner and running madly.

Alistair tensed and Morrigan raised her staff, but Elan knelt and threw her arms out wide, laughing and crying all at the same time.

Woofus bounded into her embrace, dragging his tongue along her face and making her sputter, before he backed up and raced barking back the way he'd come.

Elan's hands were already reaching toward the hilts of her daggers when Alistair shouted, "Darkspawn! Incoming!" The two of them raced after the hound. Bursts of magic soared over their heads.

Woofus barked and lunged and snapped, whirling and leaping like a berserker at a party. Elan wove around him, her intricate footwork feeding off his in a kind of dance. She'd almost forgotten her two silent companions...until she looked up and saw Alistair was surrounded by a crowd of darkspawn, the heavy press of them threatening to send him to his knees.

"No!" she shouted anxiously, "Not again!" She lunged at the nearest, jabbing him hard in what ought to be a kidney. He went down quickly, but there were so many...

Something white and sticky settled over half the darkspawn like a net covered in foam from the sea. Trapped like fish, they lunged against the webbing, gnashing their teeth. Alistair slammed his shield into the mass, sending up a spray of blood like the crest of wave.

Elan gazed over it, to see the largest spider she had ever seen in her life standing where Morrigan had been. The spider spit something green at several darkspawn on Elan's left, a definite reminder that there'd be time to figure out what had happened later, if they survived...whereas if she tried to figure things out now...well...Elan stepped down on the instep of a darkspawn coming up behind her and jerked her elbow back into its gut. She wrapped her other arm around her waist, repeating the hit with her blade. The darkspawn grunted, falling back.

Soon it was over.

There was an odd, hazy surge of power around the spider, and Morrigan stood in its place, looking only mildly disgruntled.

Elan wiped her blades and slid them back into their sheaths, handing Alistair the rag. Alistair's eyes met hers, the memory of the Wilds playing between them as he took it, his fingers brushing hers. Her breath caught again...but her ribs didn't seem to hurt.

"Who's a good boy?" she crooned, scratching the belly of her blood-flecked mabari. "Oh, you are. Yes, you are _such_ a good boy, you are!"

Woofus grunted happily and wiggled so that her fingers would hit just the right spot.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Elan said fervently. "I was so worried."

Woofus barked emphatically. He'd been worried about her as well. Elan wondered how they had come to be separated, but if it meant he had survived, she wouldn't question it...particularly not now that he'd found her again.

"You remember Alistair?"

A polite, perfunctory bark.

"And this is Morrigan. Alistair and I met her when Du—when we were in the Wilds."

Another polite bark.

"Morrigan and her mother saved Alistair and me. From the Tower, I mean. That's where we've been...at their home...they...helped heal us."

A half-pleased, half-frustrated bark. Woofus was happy they'd been saved, but...Elan got the impression he'd known where she was, but had been waiting to rejoin her after she'd left. That was odd. Perhaps she'd try to ask him about it later, though—smart as he was—Woofus wasn't always easy to understand.

"So now we're traveling with this mangy beast?" Morrigan said, sounding exasperated.

"He's not mangy," Alistair said defensively. Woofus barked happily and bumped his head into Alistair's hand. Alistair took the hint and scratched his ears. Watching them, Elan smiled.


	2. A Silver Lining

Notes--Some of the following dialogue has been taken from or modeled off of lines in DAO. I have tried to keep this to a minimum.

I may eventually expand the part of this chapter before the ***. If and when that happens, this chapter will probably be divided into potions of two new chapters.

* * *

Woofus' return lifted Elan's gloom considerably.

Enough that she began to feel desirous of easing her companions' discomfort in turn.

If she could.

That...and she might have been a bit curious.

"How did you become a shapeshifter?" she asked Morrigan.

The witch tilted her head thoughtfully. "I was not born as such. 'Tis a skill of Flemeth's, leaned over many years," she admitted. "Why? Is there something in particular you wish to know?"

Elan shrugged, tossing a stick she'd found. Woofus bounded after it gleefully, seized it, brought it back.

"I've never heard of any magic like that before," she explained, truthfully enough. She'd never heard much of any type of magic. The Chantry preferred not to glorify it in any way, and what few books on the subject Elan's family had managed to add to their library seemed...vague.

"Truly? 'Tis not unknown in some parts of the world," Morrigan said loftily.

Elan thought she heard Alistair snort, but he was still walking several yards behind them, so wrapped up in his own thoughts it seemed unlikely he'd so much as heard a word they'd said.

"Isn't such magic open to abuse?" Elan asked, though without disapproval.

"So your Chantry would have you believe," Morrigan scoffed. "All knowledge is dangerous...there are those of us who look on the word apostate as meaning freedom."

Alistair may or may not have snorted again.

******

By the end of the day, Morrigan and Elan were all but bickering. It was almost a relief to see the group of men walking toward them.

"Ah, more refugees to attend to," a dark spry observed expectantly "It looks as though the pretty one's the leader."

Morrigan had enough of an air of command Elan wasn't all that surprised to discover the man just assumed the witch was in charge. Actually...Elan wasn't sure that wasn't the case. Morrigan and her mother certainly seemed to have more knowledge of—and control over—events than Elan and Alistair had been able to manage.

"Bandits," Alistair had drawn up close enough to hiss in Elan's ear. "Preying on refugees," he added darkly.

"They are fools. I say we teach them a lesson," Morrigan said loudly enough to make it clear that the comment was intended for the bandits' benefit as much or more than Elan's own.

"Just a simple ten silvers and you can be on your way," the man said wheedlingly.

"Forget it," Elan said flatly.

The man tsked at her—actually tsked—as if she were a rebellious child. "Not too happy to hear that," he chided. "We have rules, after all."

"Right, you don't pay, we ramsack your corpse—those are the rules," a big man on the right said, clearly proud to know as much and pleased to have the opportunity to display his knowledge.

Elan squared her shoulders. "You're certainly welcome to try," she said calmly, but firmly. Few of her father's men were willing to challenge that tone...but these weren't her father's men, and she knew it.

These men took her at her word.

But even as they raised their weapons, Morrigan let loose a blast of magic.

"A little warning might be nice," Alistair muttered even as he used the advantage to swing his sword deeply into a bandit's upraised arm.

Woofus jumped the two bandits who'd tried to flank their victims while their leader had been speaking.

"True, but at least they're the ones standing there like they just got the wind knocked out of them," Elan replied, pulling a flask from her belt and tossing it into the center of the crowd.

She darted forward and planted her foot in the bandit-leader's stomach, knocking him back into the swords of the men behind him, and followed it up with a quick jab of her dagger where his cuirass had shifted upward slightly as he stumbled.

"All right, all right, you win," the bandit leader gasped. "We shouldn't have messed with you...but how can we make amends?"

Elan was tempted to tell them to flee with their lives. After all, they were using their strength and skills to survive...something she'd learned the value of recently and all too well. But if she let them go, they'd only take up where they'd left off somewhere else. And she was in no mood to pass trouble along to someone else. She'd had more than trouble enough.

"Your swords in our service," she demanded.

"That will never work," Alistair snickered. "Will it?"

Elan shrugged.

It seemed sensible enough to put the men's skills to use if they could. After all, she'd let Alistair talk her into agreeing to raise an army...not that she had the slightest idea how to go about such a task. Her father taught her a great deal about leading and administrating men...but it had never occurred to either of them that she would ever need to actively recruit them. Even her father rarely did that, after all...most men considered it an honor to serve the teyrn...

Unfortunately, serving anonymous fighters who beat you into submission didn't really have the same appeal. "Are you crazy?" the man balked as his followers began to back away. "Do we look like soldiers?"

Elan was hardly surprised. But, while she understood their reaction, and even empathized a bit with their actions, that didn't mean she was about to let them go about their _business_ unchallenged.

"Well," she said philosophically, "I suppose there's nothing for it but to hand you over to the authorities, then."

Especially as she wasn't at all convinced the templars would kill the men out of hand. Surely some sort of compromise could be reached...imprisonment might not be a kind solution—or even practical in a village facing seige—but perhaps the bandits could be pressured into escorting refugees? That would be both fitting and ironic...to make them atone for their crimes by preventing others from committing similar deeds.

But the bandits didn't seem interested in justice, poetic or otherwise.

"I'm not going without a fight!" The leader shouted lunging for Elan, only to find himself pinned by a quick, sure thrust of Alistair's sword.

Woofus tore the throat out of the bandit he still held pinned to the ground, and snapped neatly through the leg of another as he turned to flee. The man hit the ground writhing and spraying blood.

Another fell to the ground stone dead for no apparent reason at all, no doubt a victim of Morrigan.

Elan sliced viciously into the forearm of another, stepping inside his guard as he dropped his sword, and thrusting her other dagger under his chin, cutting his throat.

"It's sad, really," Alistair murmured, placing a booted foot on the dead leader's chest and yanking his sword free.

Elan sighed in agreement.

"But there's always a silver lining... or so they say." Morrigan reminded them archly, crouching down beside the nearest corpse. "And—happily—in this instance, that truth happens to be quite literal."

She thrust her hand up between the two Wardens, coins clinking against one another in her palm as she opened her fingers. "These will be of considerable use in purchasing supplies and information, don't you think?"


	3. Doom Doom Doom

Notes--Some of the following dialogue has been taken from or modeled off of lines in DAO. Elan's line about a gift and a curse is borrowed from Monk with no insult or infringement intended.

Thanks to all the people who have added any of my stories as favorites or added me as a favorite author. Thanks to those few reviewers who have let me know they like my work. And a big thanks to those who have taken time to send me encouraging messages! If not for you, I probably wouldn't have gotten motivated enough to write and post this bit, so I hope you like it!

The chapter title is a reference to Deekin, a henchman from Neverwinter Nights SoU and HotU.

* * *

"Well, there it is." Alistair said with a sigh. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."

"Ah, so you've finally decided to rejoin us then?" Morrigan demanded, her satisfaction at teaching the bandits a lesson apparently not enough to offset her ill-temper at having spent several hours answering Elan's questions. "Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?"

"You have been quiet," Elan said, because she'd missed the sound of his voice, the way he made her smile through her fear and her grief, and immediately wanted to kick herself. She'd been just as quiet on the road with Duncan...and in the Wilds...until today. She knew his reasons. She even understood them.

"Yes," Alistair said wearily, "I know. I was just...thinking."

"No wonder it took so long, then," Morrigan sneered.

"Oh, I get it. This is the part where we're shocked to discover how you never had a friend your entire life," Alistair retorted.

Morrigan shrugged. "I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so."

"Anyway," Alistair said pointedly, turning very deliberately so that Morrigan was no longer in his line of sight, and Elan was. "I thought we should talk about where we intended to go first."

"We need to hear some news before we can decide," Elan reminded him. "But we should—"

"Come with me," an unfamiliar voice crisply interrupted.

Elan glanced over her shoulder and found herself nose-to...breastplate with...someone. The breastplate was emblazoned with a flaming sword. She tilted her head back to look the speaker in the eye...and ended up looking him in the visor instead. It was really rather disconcerting, all this shiny metal...which...come to think of it...should have made it easy to hear him coming.

She sincerely hoped she wasn't losing her touch. _Of course, I probably am, seeing as how this would be the worst possible time for it...But maybe all the squabbling masked the noise...Yes, I'll just keep telling myself that. _She sighed. "If you insist...uh...ser..." she said awkwardly. "But would you mind telling us where we're going...or why we would have the slightest interest in doing so?"

"We're going to tell Ser Bryant what you did," the man said.

"I see." Elan said, meaning, of course, that she didn't really. "And who is this Ser Bryant, exactly? Why should he care whether or not we defended ourselves when bandits decided to attack us?"

"Ser Bryant is the head of the Chantry's templars," the man said, inadvertently explaining his odd armor in the process. He didn't bother answering the rest of Elan's questions. Typical.

_But I can hazard a guess as to why you think you think your Ser Bryant would be interested in us...if you happened to see Morrigan's little performance...and she did something...odd for a mage. At least she didn't turn into any odd animals. Thank the Maker for small blessings, I suppose. _

Luckily, in spite of the scene he had apparently witnessed, the templar didn't seem that distrustful of any of them. He strode off ahead, not really keeping an eye on any of them.

Morrigan glanced at Elan, who dipped her head in the templar's direction. Morrigan raised her eyebrows, and followed after him, apparently just as unconcerned as he was.

Elan edged as close to Alistair as she dared, and nudged him with her elbow. "Psst. Alistair," she hissed from the corner of her mouth, trying not to move her lips. "Any idea how we can convince this templar there's nothing odd about Morrigan?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, when he finally managed to get his stifled laughter under control. "If they take her, our lives will be more pleasant...and we'll be free of whatever meddling Flemeth put her up to."

"Hmmm..." Elan grunted, a bit disturbed by how appealing this thought was...and how much sense it seemed to make. She knew there was some reason it wasn't that simple...

Oh. Right. "Alistair! She saved our lives! We can't just hand her over to the templars—they'll probably kill her out of hand!"

Alistair groaned. "You're right. Why do you have to be right?"

"It's a gift...and a curse," Elan said wryly. "So...?"

"No idea," Alistair replied. "They didn't exactly cover that sort of thing in templar training."

"Well, they should," Elan informed him.

"Oh, yes. I quite agree. One never knows when one might have a perfectly legitimate need to pull the wool over the eyes of one's entire order."

"Well...yes! I mean, no...that's not...that is...oh, nevermind! I suppose we'll just have to wing it," she concluded anxiously as the doors of the Chantry loomed into sight...nearly obscured by the crowd of people gathered in front of it.

A man—dressed in a manner Elan had never seen before and took to be Chasind—strode back and forth in front of them, waving his arms in a frenzy of gestures, shouting loudly. The crowd murmured amongst itself in a way that reminded Elan of the surging, whispering voices she'd heard in her Joining. The association made her stomach roil with fear and revulsion.

"It's just a guess," Alistair murmured, "but I think everyone in Lothering is aware of the approaching darkspawn horde."

"Let us through," the templar said impatiently. "Chantry business. Make way."

"There! One of their minions among us!" The man shouted, lunging toward Elan. "This woman bears their evil stench! Can you not feel the vile blackness that fills her?"

"Keep your voice down," Elan hissed at the man, adding, "how does he know? How can he tell? Please tell me that bit about the stench is metaphorical," in Alistair's direction.

Alistair shrugged. "Don't ask me. I think you smell delightful, but then, I also like the smell of a well-aged Stilton."

Elan sighed. "Seeing as how Stilton smells better than darkspawn, I'll take what I can get."

"I try to be of service," Alistair smirked.

The Chasind, of course, was not amused. "The legion of evil is on our doorstep!" he shouted.

Elan was not certain she was reassured to see how just literally that comment could be taken.

"I've seen them! They will destroy you!"

"Don't be a fool," Elan said loudly, trying to cast her voice to be heard at the edges of the crowd. She'd never thought that might be a skill she should practice. _Well, live and learn._ "Darkspawn can be defeated."

"But isn't he right?" Someone in the crowd wailed. "The bann left us! We're going to die!"

"You cannot run! You cannot fight!" the Chasind reiterated.

"Standing about and shouting won't save you," Elan snapped.

"Nothing will save us! There is no hope left!" the barbarian moaned.

"There is always hope! We Fereldans have fought off far worse in our past!" Elan shouted...and doubted the words even as she did. Barbarians, witches, werewolves...what were these to the corruption that devoured a person's soul, twisting and devouring all that made someone who he or she had been?

"Are you calling me a coward?" The Chasind demanded.

"I know dogs made of sterner stuff than you," Elan said with false bravado.

Woofus barked loudly, making several people in the crowd back up crowd began to disperse, still muttering amongst itself about doom, hope, and escape.

"I—I am shamed...." the barbarian said, wilting as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of him. "But...the monsters...the blackness will come..." He looked at Elan with dull and hollow eyes. "You know," he said flatly, "it will come."

The templar escorting them pulled off his helmet. He looked far less imposing...far more...trickable...or persuadable...or reasonable, or something... "Sorry about that, my lady," he said. "But maybe it was just as well...could have gotten ugly if the templars had to disperse that lot."

"Yes, well," Elan said, casting a look in Alistair's direction, "I live to serve."


	4. Dust and Ashes

Disclaimer--Most of the following dialogue has been taken from or modeled off of lines in DAO. I am making no profit and intend no infringement.

Notes--Thanks to all the people who have added any of my stories as favorites or added me as a favorite author. Thanks to those few reviewers who have let me know they like my work. And a big thanks to those who have taken time to send me encouraging messages!

Title Reference: Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and adventures are the shadow truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes and forgotten.  
Neil Gaiman

* * *

The chantry was dark and crowded.

_Just stepping inside is oppressive, _Elan thought sardonically. _If the Chantry Alistair lived in was anything like this, no wonder he hated it._

Most of what little space remained seemed to be taken up by a large man in armor like that worn by their escort barking orders at a small semi-circle of similarly-armored men.

He broke off with a scowl as he noticed their approach. "What are you doing away from your post?"

"I've come to report about the bandits, Ser Bryant," the templar accompanying them said.

"Maker's breath!" Ser Bryant—or so Elan presumed—shouted impatiently. "How many times must we drive them off?"

"That's just it, ser," the templar interjected, looking sheepish. "The bandits are dead. This lot killed them."

"What?" Ser Bryant stopped and assessed the little group before him through narrowed eyes. "By themselves?"

"Yes, ser. I saw the whole thing from my post. It was over before I could get over there, ser."

"Impressive," Ser Bryant allowed. "Give them a sovereign reward, then. And get back to your post. We can't have the darkspawn catching us unawares."

"Um, yes, ser. Only, about what I saw, ser," the templar muttered uncomfortably. "There's something odd about that girl, ser. The tall, dark one, I mean. She did somewhat strange in the fight..I think she bears watching, ser. Might be an apostate."

"And if I were such a one?" Morrigan asked coolly. "What would you do to me, I wonder?"

"I can't think of that just now," Ser Bryant said with a pointed stare. "Defending this village—or what's left of it—from the darkspawn is our highest—our only—priority at the moment." He turned the stare on the other templar, who beat a hasty retreat.

"The darkspawn are why we've come actually," Elan said, striving to sound unruffled. "We're Grey Wardens." She deliberately kept the statement vague, hoping Ser Bryant and his fellows would take it to refer to all three of the humans in their midst. If Morrigan had been conscripted into the Wardens, surely that would be a valid reason for her to be wandering about outside the Tower? And while Morrigan hadn't joined the order, she was working on its behalf...as far as Elan knew....

"I...see," Ser Bryant said gravely. "Teyrn Loghain declared all Grey Wardens traitors, responsible for the king's death. You know this, I hope?"

"He claimed we're responsible?" Elan repeated so loudly that people throughout the chantry turned about to look. Alistair placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. She was more than a little grateful for the support, as the room seemed to be shimmying.

The templar nodded. "And set a bounty on any who survived. I don't believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or malicious as the teyrn claims, but, either way, there it is. It is best you not linger, though. Just...in case."

"Thank you for the warning," Elan said faintly.

Ser Bryant sighed. "Only fools argue about who owns a cottage while it burns down around them." He said cryptically, pressing a key into Elan's hand and tilting his head slightly toward a cabinet set agains the back wall. "If Arl Eamon were intervene, perhaps things would not have gone this far."

Elan clutched the key so tightly she could feel it biting into her fingers...the same way Alistair's fingers suddenly seemed to be biting into her shoulder. Even the cool metal chill was the same. "What's wrong with Arl Eamon?" she asked.

"Arl Eamon has fallen ill. One of the arl's knights, Ser Donall, is here, searching for fantasies, while...nevermind, ask him if you care about such foolishness," Ser Bryant said shortly, gesturing in the direction of the chantry library.

Alistair was already using his grip on Elan's shoulder to steer her in that direction.

"Umm...thank you," she said again, a bit embarrassed by the abrupt departure. Ser Bryant, however, seemed little phased, as he had already resumed issuing orders as quickly as he could draw breath.

It didn't take long to find the single occupant of the little book-alcove. He was hunched over a low table, muttering over an open tome. He, however, was not so distracted he failed to notice the clinking sounds of armor behind him. _Well, I know which one of us will live longer_, Elan thought ruefully. _If I weren't already dead—and cursed—I might be worried. _ He whipped around to confront them, the tension in his face quickly melting into a sort of pleased surprise. "Alistair? By the Maker, it _is_ you!"

"Nice to see you again, Ser Donall, but what's this I hear about Arl Eamon being ill?"

Ser Donall sighed. "I'm here seeking the Urn of Sacred Ashes—Andraste's ashes are said to cure any malady, you know. But nothing I've found leads me to believe this is anything less than a quest of desperation. I intend to return to Redcliffe and tell the arlessa exactly that."

"We were actually thinking of heading that away ourselves," Alistair told him. "We need the Arl's aid against Teyrn Loghain."

Elan winced. She would have preferred not letting that sort of information out...It sounded so...treasonous...she hoped Alistair knew this knight very, very well indeed...and she hoped he could be trusted...but perhaps it didn't really matter that much...after all, Loghain had already declared them traitors and set a price on their heads. It wasn't as if anything they did was likely to make the situation that much worse...in the end.

"I see." Ser Donall said. "Well, whatever the teyrn has done or not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern."

Alistair looked chastened.

Elan, on the other hand, felt a sudden flicker of insight. "Do you think Loghain is involved in the arl's illness?"

"The arl fell ill before the king died," Ser Donall said, shaking his head, then stopped suddenly, looking as if Elan had planted her fist in his gut. "But what if Loghain planned that, too? Ah," he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to forestall a headache. "Such thoughts do not sit well with me."

_Too_, Elan thought triumphantly. _He thinks Loghain might have planned the Arl's illness, __**too**__. So he __**does**__ think Loghain betrayed the king. Good. At least not everyone believes Loghain's lies...not yet. Now it's just up to us—Alistair and me—to work with that. To make sure they don't buy them in the end._

"We should see what's happening in Redcliffe ourselves," Alistair said anxiously. "I believe that now, more than ever."

Elan agreed, she most definitely agreed, but...

"If nothing else, I am certain you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe. The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could," Ser Donall agreed courteously.

"Thank you, Ser Donall," Elan said. "We'll be sure to take that under advisement. Since you say you're planning to return to Redcliffe soon, perhaps you might make mention of us to the arlessa?"

"What?" Ser Donall blinked, looking a bit confused. "Oh, yes, certainly."

"All right, then, thanks. Until we meet again," Elan said hastily, ducking out of the alcove, and nearly running headlong into the Revered Mother.

The Revered Mother, seemingly less taken aback by their abrupt meeting than Elan, immediately inquired whether or not Elan intended to make a monetary donation to the chantry, observing that Elan and her companions seemed quite well off in comparison to the rest of the people crowding the chantry.

Elan felt a bit guilty that no such idea had occurred to her, then felt a twinge of annoyance over being made to feel guilty; both effects were only intensified by her very similar recation to the thought of giving up what little coin their group possessed. They needed that coin to buy supplies and—eventually—fund this army she'd agreed to try raising...even if they'd simply taken that coin from others...who had probably taken it from the people occupying this..._damn._

Elan handed the money over with a sigh.

If she'd been hoping, however, that doing the...well, she wasn't sure it _was_ the right thing actually, as they _still_ needed that money just as much as anyone else...the _pious _thing was likely to butter the Revered Mother up on their behalf, she was bound for disappointment. No sooner had the Revered Mother heard the words _Grey Wardens_ than she all but kicked them out of the chantry.

"Well," Alistair said brightly, as they stood on the doorstep and stared at one another, "that would be what I love about the chantry. Always so friendly. So helpful...so...."

"Generous?" Elan suggested darkly. "Uptight?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I suppose the Chantry life is good enough for some, but...we have a chance to do some real good instead of sitting in a temple somewhere, worrying about appearances."

"I have to admit, you don't seem like the religious sort." Elan said thoughtfully. _And thank the Maker for that. _

"You're telling me," Alistair agreed fervently. "I was banished to the kitchens to scour pots more times than I count. And that's a lot." he added with a self-deprecating grin, "I can count pretty high.I was lucky. Duncan was forced to conscript me, actually, and was the Grand Cleric ever furious when he did. I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I'll always be grateful...If it weren't for Duncan, I would never...I wouldn't have..."

The last month of Elan's life flashed before her eyes as Alistair's face crumpled, firmed as he struggled to master his grief, and crumpled again. That was enough—more than enough—to make her heart twist. Worse, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that Alistair's grief was her doing—at least in part—and she doubted she would ever really forgive herself for that. Any more than she could forgive Loghain. Any more than she could forgive Howe.

"I...I'm sorry." Elan could barely force the words out around the lump in her throat.

Alistair was startled by the pain in her eyes, a pain so raw and intense it burned through the haze of his grief. Oddly enough, the sight—while hardly comforting—seemed to brace him; suddenly he felt less shaken. Less alone. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and did his best to rally, to reassure her. "No...I...I'm sorry. I thought I was past this...I shouldn't have lost it...not with the Blight and everything..."

"There's no need to apologize." she said, more abruptly than she'd intended. "I've lost enough to know what you're going through."

Alistair looked surprised, then gazed into her face as if seeing into her soul."Yes, I...imagine you really _have_, haven't you?"

Suddenly, Elan felt all-too-vulnerable, her pain and her yearning exposed. She turned away, struggling against the urge to run. To flee. _As if I could outrun my past...as if gaining enough distance from the loss would make it seem as if it never happened, _she thought blackly, her blood surging in her ears. "I'm _still_ hungry," she said planatively. "Let's go see this tavern of yours, Morrigan."


End file.
